The Golden Darkness/A Bridge Plaza in a Winter Night
A BRIDGE PLAZA IN A WINTER NIGHT.
I.
The bridge plaza is hung with moons,
Fringed with a broidery of stars,
Soft and pearly through the veil of a frail snowfall;
Over the pavements of stone, stretch the pavements of snow,
Out of the strange orange twilight with its roof of curving darkness.
Trolley cars, with frost-misted windows, glide over the frozen glistering rails,
Softly, silently,
As though they knew that the light that they carry within them
Is the booty robbed from the tombs of dead volcanoes.
Like a bell swung against a carpet,
So a muffled clanging beats briefly against the snowflake-woven air,
As a yellow front-light
Noses along the alabaster ground.
On the black, gaunt branches of a tree at a sidewalk’s edge,
A gold-white cloth is lying,
And underneath it a lamp-post glares
Like the eye of the serpent guarding the Golden Fleece.
Out of the darkness curving overhead
The snowflakes drift into the faery light of the plaza,
And through the little noises of the city night
The silence sifts and sifts. . . .
Far, far away, the faint whistle of a boat, as though from mystical lips,
Is calling away the enchantment that has settled on the plaza;
Far, far away, over the tops of the houses
The elevated trains like golden snakes are crawling;
Far, far away, the black steel limbs of the bridge
Shoulder the night.
The bridge plaza is hung with moons,
Fringed with a broidery of stars,
Soft and pearly through the veil of a frail snowfall;
Over the pavements of stone, stretch the pavements of snow,
Out of the strange orange twilight with its roof of curving darkness.
Trolley cars, with frost-misted windows, glide over the frozen glistering rails,
Softly, silently,
As though they knew that the light that they carry within them
Is the booty robbed from the tombs of dead volcanoes.
Like a bell swung against a carpet,
So a muffled clanging beats briefly against the snowflake-woven air,
As a yellow front-light
Noses along the alabaster ground.
On the black, gaunt branches of a tree at a sidewalk’s edge,
A gold-white cloth is lying,
And underneath it a lamp-post glares
Like the eye of the serpent guarding the Golden Fleece.
Out of the darkness curving overhead
The snowflakes drift into the faery light of the plaza,
And through the little noises of the city night
The silence sifts and sifts. . . .
Far, far away, the faint whistle of a boat, as though from mystical lips,
Is calling away the enchantment that has settled on the plaza;
Far, far away, over the tops of the houses
The elevated trains like golden snakes are crawling;
Far, far away, the black steel limbs of the bridge
Shoulder the night.
II.
The bridge plaza is hung with moons,
Fringed with a broidery of stars,
Mellow and golden through the veil of a frail snowfall;
But through this faery orange twilight, ghosts are hurrying:
The bridge plaza is hung with moons,
Fringed with a broidery of stars,
Mellow and golden through the veil of a frail snowfall;
But through this faery orange twilight, ghosts are hurrying:
People are coming home from work with their hands in their coat pockets;
People are coming home from work with huddled shoulders;
People are coming home from work with a weariness in their eyes.
The crunch of a footstep is heard,
And the muffled thud of hoofs striking sparks of frost,
And a child sobbing softly through the snow. . . .
O city!
There is cotton in the mouth of the city;
Unseen hands grip the throat of the city;
The city is struggling silently.
People are coming home from work with huddled shoulders;
People are coming home from work with a weariness in their eyes.
The crunch of a footstep is heard,
And the muffled thud of hoofs striking sparks of frost,
And a child sobbing softly through the snow. . . .
O city!
There is cotton in the mouth of the city;
Unseen hands grip the throat of the city;
The city is struggling silently.
III.
The bridge plaza is hung with moons,
Fringed with a broidery of stars,
Strange and shimmering through the veil of a frail snowfall;
Hemming in from three sides, golden stores are shining
With their doors of glamour and their windows of dream.
Out of the darkness curving overhead,
Out of the prison of infinity,
Under the covers of snowflakes,
Tiny shadows are escaping,—
Tiny, unthought-of, unseen shadows
Sail into the luminous land of the plaza.
They whirl, they line up, they march in ranks,
They hide under their little white shields,
And steadily, steadily they are raising a bulwark of alabaster against the night.
The crunch of a footstep is heard—
Is this the way shadows groan?
Or is the crunch of that footstep in the snow
The crunch of life eating death?
The thud of hoofs shooting clouds of drift is heard—
Is it the gaunt mother earth beating her breasts in dishevelled despair?
A child is sobbing softly through the snow—
Is life but a child crying in a realm of dream and glamour?
O city!
The bridge plaza is hung with moons,
Fringed with a broidery of stars,
Strange and shimmering through the veil of a frail snowfall;
Hemming in from three sides, golden stores are shining
With their doors of glamour and their windows of dream.
Out of the darkness curving overhead,
Out of the prison of infinity,
Under the covers of snowflakes,
Tiny shadows are escaping,—
Tiny, unthought-of, unseen shadows
Sail into the luminous land of the plaza.
They whirl, they line up, they march in ranks,
They hide under their little white shields,
And steadily, steadily they are raising a bulwark of alabaster against the night.
The crunch of a footstep is heard—
Is this the way shadows groan?
Or is the crunch of that footstep in the snow
The crunch of life eating death?
The thud of hoofs shooting clouds of drift is heard—
Is it the gaunt mother earth beating her breasts in dishevelled despair?
A child is sobbing softly through the snow—
Is life but a child crying in a realm of dream and glamour?
O city!
The eyes of the city blaze with cold fire;
The city is breathing hard;
All the windows are misty with the breath of the city;
The lungs of the city are filled with winter winds.
The city is breathing hard;
All the windows are misty with the breath of the city;
The lungs of the city are filled with winter winds.
But the city is triumphant;
He has already forgotten the unseen hands of the darkness;
He is sprawling at ease on his couch of snow,
He stretches his legs through the streets;
He chuckles silently.
He is crowned with a laurel of beauty,
He wears a wreath of dream and glamour around his head,
A string of moons and stars is curled around and around his head.
But beware, O city, beware!
Though your flesh is of stone and your veins are of steel,
Your wreath will be your hanging rope;
Beauty will be the death of you, Beauty is cruel;
She never had mercy for any one,
She will never show mercy to you.
Beware, O Nero in stone and steel!
Beware, O city, beware!
He has already forgotten the unseen hands of the darkness;
He is sprawling at ease on his couch of snow,
He stretches his legs through the streets;
He chuckles silently.
He is crowned with a laurel of beauty,
He wears a wreath of dream and glamour around his head,
A string of moons and stars is curled around and around his head.
But beware, O city, beware!
Though your flesh is of stone and your veins are of steel,
Your wreath will be your hanging rope;
Beauty will be the death of you, Beauty is cruel;
She never had mercy for any one,
She will never show mercy to you.
Beware, O Nero in stone and steel!
Beware, O city, beware!
IV.
The bridge plaza is hung with moons,
Fringed with a broidery of stars,
Luminous with glamour through the veil of a frail snowfall,
And the stretches of white are touched with the gold of wonder.
A trolley car glides by on cotton wheels,
Moving like a nightmare with a yellow eye,
Moving like a nightmare entering a dream.
The snowflakes drift and drift into the orange twilight of the plaza;
Each delicately flimmering string is the fluttering pulse of a hush;
Each elfin glimmer the quaint twinkle in the eyes of the frost.
Ah, eyes!
The city’s conscience is a peacock’s tail;
The bridge plaza is hung with moons,
Fringed with a broidery of stars,
Luminous with glamour through the veil of a frail snowfall,
And the stretches of white are touched with the gold of wonder.
A trolley car glides by on cotton wheels,
Moving like a nightmare with a yellow eye,
Moving like a nightmare entering a dream.
The snowflakes drift and drift into the orange twilight of the plaza;
Each delicately flimmering string is the fluttering pulse of a hush;
Each elfin glimmer the quaint twinkle in the eyes of the frost.
Ah, eyes!
The city’s conscience is a peacock’s tail;
The city is full of eyes,
The city is nothing but eyes.
There are the bleary eyes of distant houses looking out
Under their ermine hoods;
There are the glittering eyes of lamp-posts, remembering their Niagara,
Wondering, perhaps, whether these wavering flake-strings
Are their cataract’s white dishevelled hair only grown older;
There are the black eyes of the tall factories beyond the houses;
There are the roaming eyes of autos and trucks and horses and wagons,
And there are the eyes of people with a weariness in them.
But the eyes of Silence, as she moves among the moons of the plaza, are the eyes of many:
Silence is a sphinx of nothingness with blind eyes fixed on infinity;
Silence is a weird woman whose eyes are caverns of night and vastness;
Silence is an Amazon with breast-plates of glittering frost;
Silence is a mystical Helen for whom, far, far beyond the rim of daylight, spectral towers are crashing;—
And Silence is a child sobbing softly through the snow. . . .
Though her heart is heavy, heavy,
She moves lightly among the moons and the stars of the plaza,
With a tread that is softer than the tread of star-feet fleeting over the silver wastes of the clouds.
Sometimes she turns unseen, and a crystalline shimmer of her drapery whisks away into darkness;
Sometimes little winds with feet of drift run after her and hold on to her unseen hem;
Sometimes she touches the staring eyes of a factory and they close;
Sometimes she stops and listens, tautly poised on the edge of the world.
And so the snowflakes sift and sift into the orange twilight of the plaza;
And far, far away, the faint whistle of a boat, as though from mystical lips,
Is calling away the enchantment that has settled on the plaza;
The city is nothing but eyes.
There are the bleary eyes of distant houses looking out
Under their ermine hoods;
There are the glittering eyes of lamp-posts, remembering their Niagara,
Wondering, perhaps, whether these wavering flake-strings
Are their cataract’s white dishevelled hair only grown older;
There are the black eyes of the tall factories beyond the houses;
There are the roaming eyes of autos and trucks and horses and wagons,
And there are the eyes of people with a weariness in them.
But the eyes of Silence, as she moves among the moons of the plaza, are the eyes of many:
Silence is a sphinx of nothingness with blind eyes fixed on infinity;
Silence is a weird woman whose eyes are caverns of night and vastness;
Silence is an Amazon with breast-plates of glittering frost;
Silence is a mystical Helen for whom, far, far beyond the rim of daylight, spectral towers are crashing;—
And Silence is a child sobbing softly through the snow. . . .
Though her heart is heavy, heavy,
She moves lightly among the moons and the stars of the plaza,
With a tread that is softer than the tread of star-feet fleeting over the silver wastes of the clouds.
Sometimes she turns unseen, and a crystalline shimmer of her drapery whisks away into darkness;
Sometimes little winds with feet of drift run after her and hold on to her unseen hem;
Sometimes she touches the staring eyes of a factory and they close;
Sometimes she stops and listens, tautly poised on the edge of the world.
And so the snowflakes sift and sift into the orange twilight of the plaza;
And far, far away, the faint whistle of a boat, as though from mystical lips,
Is calling away the enchantment that has settled on the plaza;
And far, far away, over the tops of the houses,
The elevated trains like golden snakes are crawling;
And far, far away, the black steel limbs of the bridge
Shoulder the night.
The elevated trains like golden snakes are crawling;
And far, far away, the black steel limbs of the bridge
Shoulder the night.